Ignatius

After period of order
Winds of change
Dark days ahead
They say "an ill wind blew no-one good", "he'll grind your bones to make his bread"
Crushed beneath Fortuna's wheel all semblance of collective will
Having once been so high, humanity fell to unseen lows
Once dedicated to the soul, now dedicated to the sale
The humble pious peasant goes to town to sell his children to the lords of capital
For reasons questionable at best